


Falling's Not the Problem

by whitchry9



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst, Arc Reactor, Canon Compliant, Crossover, Disabled Character, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Medical, Missing Scenes, PTSD, Surgery, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 14,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4334582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Tony Stark are in a hospital in Afghanistan at the same time. In the same room even.</p><p>(John seems to attract eccentric geniuses.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Northerlywind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northerlywind/gifts).



> Timeline: takes places before season 1 of Sherlock, and during the middle of Iron Man. There's got to be something in between Rhodey rescuing Tony and him arriving back home, so this is it.
> 
> This is a birthday fic for Julie, who was the one who gave me the prompt however long ago it was, and this is me (hopefully) finishing it for you. AT THIS RATE IT MIGHT GET DONE BY YOUR ACTUAL BIRTHDAY. MAYBE.

He was conscious when they took him. Barely, but he was. He recognized what he was feeling as shock, from the blood loss, from the literal shock of the explosion at such close range, at all of the emotions involved.

He knew he was bleeding, even through the body armour he was wearing. He wasn't stupid; he would have never gone to Afghanistan if he thought his safety was at risk. It was the best tech he had, the stuff the government paid top dollar for.

Of course, so were the weapons.

Perhaps Tony hadn't quite thought it through. But then he never expected his own weapons to be used against him.

He didn't have time to think why they had his weapons before men came and grabbed him. Most of their faces were covered, and they didn't speak to him, at least not anything he understood.

To be fair, he was distracted with the bleeding and the pain and the panic.

 

They shoved a bag over his head and he felt the vehicle start to move.

He passed out shortly after that.

 

* * *

 

He woke up to bright lights and guns pressed into his back. A video camera was in his face, and people were talking in a language he didn't understand. Demanding ransom, probably. That's what he would do.

He didn't notice much else when the pain in his chest registered. He'd sort of forgotten about it in the short amount of time he was unconscious. But now it really hurt.

His health probably wasn't their first priority, but keeping him alive should be.

 

* * *

 

He must have passed out again, because the next thing he knew was screaming. The air was damp and smelled of rust, and he realized it was his own blood. He was the one screaming.

And oh god there was a hole in his chest  _therewasaholeinhischest_ and someone was cutting his skin and everything hurt and oh god this was the end wasn't it, he was going to die here.

A cloth over his face, and then nothing.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next time he woke up it was cold.

There was something in his nose and something on his chest and he didn't know where he was and it was goddamn cold.

He'd had worse wakeups, but not since college.

He swallowed against the awful taste in his mouth, rust and possibly the death of a small animal, but it only made him gag. Whatever was in his nose didn't stop there, it went all the way down his throat.

Yeah, that would be the first thing to come out.

 

It was disgusting, but he got it out and ripped the tape off his nose. Everything in his body ached.

 

He turned his head. There was a cup or something similar on a table nearby. He could probably reach it. Probably. Maybe. If his muscles decided not to give up. He flexed his hand before trying.

It tore at the pain in his chest, turning the throbbing into something sharp and hot, and he missed, his hand only knocking it off.

Okay, sure, maybe not the left arm. Right arm?

That would involve rolling more, and reaching across the pain in his chest that made his breath catch in his throat.

But he could try.

 

Something tugged at him when he tried to move, and he remembered back to one of the things that had registered when he'd first woken.  _Something on his chest._

But not only that, something _attached_ to his chest.

 

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” a man told him, calmly, like it was an everyday thing to wake up in a foreign place with your limbs feeling like lead and your only recent memories being of blood.

 

Tony tore the bandages off his chest as fast as his useless hands would allow.

He realized he probably shouldn't have, because there in his chest was a mess of metal and wires. Wires that he traced back to the bedside, the thing that had kept him from rolling over. He was connected to a car battery.

Oh god he was going to die here.

 

* * *

 

That was the thought that ran through his mind multiple times a day, nearly constantly when he was being tortured, and every time the men came into their room, every time his heart jumped, every time that anything happened.

_I am going to die here._

 

He didn't though.

He and Yinsen made a replacement for the battery, a miniaturized arc reactor like he had in the factory back home. He was no longer attached to the car battery, no longer had the weight of wires on his chest as he slept. They made a suit of armour to fight their way out of this hell hole.

 

Yinsen died.

Then Tony burned the bastards and took off in a blaze of glory and the explosion of a helluva lot of ammunition.

The landing was less kind to him, knocking the wind out of him and filling every orifice with sand. Seriously, he was so sick of sand.

Which left him with assorted cuts, bruises, cracked ribs and other broken bones, a dislocated shoulder (probably) and a heavy ache coming from the arc reactor in his chest.

Oh, and he was now in the middle of the desert.

Let it never be said that Tony Stark was a quitter, because he picked himself up and starting walking, away from the plumes of smoke that he knew he made. Surely someone had seen it.

And hopefully they were coming for him.

God, he hoped they were coming for him.

 

* * *

 

He had almost gotten to the point where he stopped thinking they were coming. He wasn't sure how long it had been; time had lost all meaning. He hoped it would get dark soon, but knew that as hot as he was now, he would be even colder once the sun went down.

 

Sand. Sand. Sun. More sand.

 

And then, something new.

 

_Rescue._

 

* * *

 

He'd never been so happy to see Rhodey in his life.

 

There was a helicopter ride, and Tony might have slept through part of it. The alternative was that he passed out, and he wasn't sure which he preferred.

 

They took him to a hospital. He wasn't sure which one, because the pain in his chest had made itself known again now that he wasn't pushing his entire body to the limit hiking across the desert. Gating mechanism, if that was still the prevailing theory on pain. Whatever.

 

It was a military hospital, probably. A lot of the people there were in uniforms, or combinations of uniforms and scrubs. Even some white lab coats.

 

Tony clutched at Rhodey's hand. “They can't take it out,” he insisted.

Rhodey pried his fingers off his arm. “Okay. I'll make sure they know. But Tony, it's bleeding a lot.”

“I crashed,” he exhaled. It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. Existing hurt, basically.

Rhodey's face scrunched up at that, and Tony had known him long enough to know that he wanted to ask a hell of a lot more questions, but then there were doctors and a barrage of words slung at him and he only managed to grab hold of a few and make sense of them.

“What happened?”

“Shrapnel,” he breathed. “Can't take it out. So I stopped it. Electromagnet. Hasta stay in.” He looked desperately at Rhodey, because words were getting too hard and he had to make sure that no one took it out because it would kill him.

Rhodey nodded.

Someone patted his non dislocated shoulder, and someone else put an oxygen mask over his face, and yeah that time he was pretty sure he passed out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

John was never supposed to be one of the ones who got hurt; he was supposed to heal people. Or at least help them, because he knew very well that a lot of the people they picked up couldn't be helped. Too often entire limbs were torn off in blasts. Even with the advances that the British army had to offer, they could only do so much.

But he was never supposed to be one of the ones lying in that helicopter.

 

There were never any guarantees. They all knew that going in. The patients they picked up were injured in _war,_ they couldn't expect there to be no risks involved with going in and picking them up. They all had weapons, but none of that mattered when bullets went flying out of nowhere.

 

And John was the unlucky one to get hit.

“Shit,” he swore, because of course it had to avoid the body armour. And not even hit an arm, which would have been bad too, but no, it went straight for the shoulder. And then through the shoulder and out the back somewhere.

He was fucked.

 

He tripped, no longer able to keep his body upright, let alone helping to carry the gurney that held the wounded soldier. He fell face first into the sand and the motion made the agony ring throughout his entire body. The bullet must have hit a major artery or vein, at that angle it was probably one of the subclavians or maybe even both, because his vision was going dark. Whether it was due to blood loss or shock he couldn't be sure.

He felt himself being rolled over and dragged back to the helicopter before his vision faded out completely and he thought to himself _please god let me live._

 

* * *

 

He woke up.

He wasn't sure that was going to happen, so it was nice that it did.

Still in the helicopter though, next to the soldier that they came to pick up. John wondered how he was doing.

Then he wondered how _he_ was doing. He was conscious again, that much was good. It still hurt, but it was duller. They'd obviously given him drugs, which was nice. Sometimes it was all they could do really, ease someone's passing.

Oh god. He hoped that wasn't what was happening here.

Murray leaned over his head into his field of vision. John belatedly noticed that they had backboarded him. A good plan, since even he wasn't sure where the bullet had gone.

“Don't worry Johnny boy. We're taking good care of you.” He patted John's leg as the helicopter rocked, and John closed his eyes against the pain.

 

* * *

 

Recovery wasn't fun. Of course he had to get shot in his left shoulder when he was left handed. Typical, really.

But the military hospital was effective and efficient, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before they sent him home on a leave of absence for his shoulder to finish healing.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to go home or not, even if it was only temporary.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy actual birthday. Sorry it's not done yet. IT WILL BE.

He drifted for a while, in visions of green water filling his lungs and red hair covered in blood. The face of a man who he'd barely even known. Fire and explosions.

Sometimes he caught words, but they were never his. They were never for him, they just happened around him like he wasn't really there.

Maybe he wasn't.

 

Maybe it was all just a dream and he was back in the cave, still attached to the car battery with wires weighing heavily on his chest. Still getting dunked into water that started to taste an awful lot like metal. Maybe he was still there and he was never leaving, because no one would come looking for Tony Stark, not after all the people he'd killed and everything that he'd done.

 

He let out a low moan because at least he knew if he could make noises he was still alive. They hadn't taken that from him yet.

 

* * *

 

John took a step back. He had to be hallucinating from pain or fever or something, because there was no way that could be real. There was a _hole_ in the middle of the man's chest, filled with metal and something emitting a bright light.

But... it looked so real. And it looked infected. John knew infection, had seen it take the lives of so many soldiers, worried that it would take him as well. He'd been safe so far, his shoulder remaining clear, although a mess in every other sense. But this man was flushed with fever, his dark hair plastered against his face with sweat. The skin surrounded the thing in his chest was red and angry, and fluid was seeping from the place where the metal met skin. And god, it was like a horror story, something that John had nightmares about when he was younger and Harry would watch movies late at night when she wasn't supposed to, and he'd sneak out and watch them too.

It was the stuff of nightmares, to have metal fused with flesh.

But... it looked so real. And the man's suffering certainly did. No amount of pain or delirium could take away John's very real instinct to  _help._

And this man certainly needed help. His breathing was shallow and rapid now, and he had no doubt that if he put a finger to a pulse point, it would be bounding. And under his breath, low and terrible, was a moaning.

 

John glanced around. Where were the doctors? This man didn't appear to be a soldier, nor did he appear to be a poor Afghani, which meant he was probably important. And to be in this condition, in this country, surely something horrible had happened. He thought the doctors would have been attentive and helpful.

 

He was just about to go locate one when the man on the bed groaned, and John looked back only to see him stiffen and go into a full body seizure.

Well, shit.

 

John was pretty much useless with one arm, but he managed to get the railings on the bed up, and tip the man on his side in between shouting for help.

 

Within seconds, there was a crowd of people in the room, assorted doctors and nurses and other specialists, along with a black man in full uniform who didn't appear to be either. He froze at the sight of the man on the bed seizing.

One of the nurses gently pulled John away from the man to let the doctors have room to work, and sat him back down on his own bed.

“Are you alright?” he asked, prodding at the bandages on John's shoulder.

He was surprised to see blood. Apparently he'd torn a stitch or something. He hadn't noticed in all the excitement.

“Yeah,” he replied absently. The curtain had been tugged shut in between their beds, but he could still hear the doctors ordering medications, announcing vital signs, demanding tests. He heard one that was likely the cause of the seizure, a temperature upwards of 40 degrees. Combine that with whatever the hell was in the man's chest, and it was a recipe for disaster. Or seizure, as the case happened to be.

“I'm going to remove the bandages to check the wound.”

John nodded. The violent sounds had stopped, so he assumed the seizure had been stopped, whether through some combination of medicine or treatment, or if it had just run its course.

 

He sat back when the nurse prompted him to. He felt the sting of saline as the wound was rinsed out yet again. He declined the local anaesthetic and let the torn stitch be replaced without.

He kept his attention focused on the conversation and orders being tossed around on the other side of the curtain instead of the pain.

There was discussions of surgery and infections, and demands from one man that he be repaired and airlifted to Germany as soon as possible. The head doctor, whose voice John recognized from when she did the surgery on his arm, was adamant that he couldn't be moved in his current condition. John had to agree. Whoever this man was would be here for a while longer.

 

John must have missed the nurse giving him a sedative, but he didn't miss the effects of it. He resisted sleep as long as he could, but he drifted off just as the mechanics of anti-rejection coatings were being discussed.

 


	5. Chapter 5

When John woke up, his first thought was that it was a nightmare. It certainly seemed like a nightmare, that sort of body horror.

Which was why the first thing he did was get out of bed, careful with the new stitches in his shoulder, because the doctors would tear him a new one if he bled for a second time in a day, and pulled the curtain aside.

 

There was no one there. The bed was empty and neatly made, with no sign that there had been a feverish man in it only recently.

 

“They took him to surgery,” a voice said, and dammit, John jumped, even though he was practically a soldier and should have heard him coming.

It was the black man from before, the one who looked so frightened to see the other man have a seizure. He was still in his uniform.

“Oh,” John said. He nodded. “I was just...”

“Wondering if it was real or not?” He smiled. “I've been asking myself the same thing.”

John smiled back. “I was worried I was the one with the high fever,” he remarked.

“Nah,” the man replied. “I saw it too.”

He looked away from John and glanced at the bed, looking lost.

“I didn't think I was going to see him again,” he continued. John didn't know what to say, or even if he expected an answer. So he just waited.

“He was missing for nearly three months. And then he shows up with that... thing in his chest, broken and bleeding, and he tells me...” his voice cracks a little then, “he tells me, _'Rhodey, don't take it out.'_ So I don't. Even though I've got no damn clue what it is, I promise him.” He blinks hard. “And now he's in surgery and they're trying to stop the bleeding, hell, they don't even know what's bleeding, and they can't take it out and they can't MRI him and no one knows what the hell is going on at all.”

He splayed his hands over his face and dragged his fingers down.

“I don't know what to do,” he admitted. “I don't know if I should call anyone for him, I don't know if there's anyone who can help with this, I just don't know. I don't even know what happened when he was gone, where he was, who took him even. I just... failed him.”

“You found him. That's all that matters now,” John told him. He had no clue if it was true. But it was what this man needed to hear.

The man sighed, and nodded. “Thanks. It's just... a lot, you know?”

John nodded when the man made eye contact with him. That he did know.

“John Watson,” he offered, holding his hand out.

“Oh man, sorry. James Rhodes. Rhodey.” His eyes slid down to John's shoulder. “Got shot?”

John sighed and nodded. “Yeah, apparently.”

Rhodes grimaced. “I've been shot before. Flesh wound though.”

“This was a bit more serious,” which was one hell of an understatement. He'd nearly bled out before making it back to the base, and once more in surgery. He'd even gone into cardiac arrest for a brief period.

Of course, he didn't remember any of that. His memory was a giant gap in between the helicopter ride and waking up for real the first time nearly a week later. Apparently he'd been conscious occasionally, but never lucid. He was pretty grateful for that. As it was, the pain was bad enough.

 

John shifted his thoughts back to the present. “Is he your friend?” he asked.

“Tony? Yeah. Best friend pretty much since college, although he's kind of an ass, and I'm still not entirely sure why I put up with his shit. Especially when he pulls stunts like this.”

John wasn't entirely sure how getting kidnapped was the man's fault, but he wasn't going to ask.

 

One of the nurses passed by the door. She must have noticed John out of bed, because she reappeared before John could even be relieved.

“Doctor Watson,” she scolded.

“John,” he reminded her, already shuffling back to bed.

“John,” she corrected. “You need to be in bed.”

“Going,” he muttered.

She nodded at him. “As soon as the doctor's out of surgery, she's coming to check on your wound. She wasn't pleased to hear that you tore your stitches, but she did have more pressing matters.”

John winced. He knew that the surgery she was referring to was Rhodes' friend. But he suspected that Rhodes didn't know that.

“Can I get an estimate on that?” he asked.

“Another couple of hours at least,” she replied, peering at his bandage. It was clean, just like John knew it would be. He'd been careful.

John nodded. “Alright. Thank you.”

“Stay in bed,” she ordered, before leaving and heading to whatever task she'd been going to before she got sidetracked by him.

John sighed. He was bored already.

The curtains separating the beds were yanked aside, and Rhodes stepped through.

“Doctor huh?” he asked, dragging over a plastic chair.

“Yep. Sort of hard to remember when you're the patient, since no one listens to you.”

Rhodes tilted his head. “You were the one who called for help when Tony was seizing.”

John blinked. “Oh. Yeah, I guess I was. It was all kind of a blur.”

Rhodes gestured to the chair. “Mind if I sit?”

John considered it. He was bored. “Be my guest. Do you speak Dari or Pashto?”

Rhodes frowned at him. “Enough. Why?”

“All the channels are in one or the other,” John replied, grabbing the remote and flicking on the tiny telly above the bed.

He settled on a Spanish soap that had been translated into Dari. He only got about every third word, but half the fun was making up the story as it went along.

And he was pleased to see that Rhodes seemed to relax slightly as well.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished the fic, so it now has a definitive chapter count.

He was hot again. Always with the heat.

No, that wasn't true. He'd been cold a lot too. Nights in the cave were awful for that, and being dunked in water certainly didn't help.

But he was hot now, and he remembered the heat of marching through the desert. Maybe he was still doing that. Maybe his body had given up and he was lying in the sand half dead and just waiting to die completely.

 

That would explain why he could hear Rhodey calling his name. Hell, why not throw in everyone he cared about while he was at it? Where was Pepper and Jarvis and Happy?

And wow, that was a short list. Like Yinsen said, he was a man who had everything, and nothing.

He felt his heart pang at the memory of Yinsen.

 

No, wait. That was a physical pain. The pain of having a hole cut in his chest. Dammit, even when dying it had to hurt. That wasn't supposed to happen. And Rhodey was just being annoying. Look, Tony didn't want to open his eyes right now, and nothing that imaginary Rhodey was saying could change that.

 

“...you stubborn bastard, come on, open your eyes.”

Okay, Tony would never imagine Rhodey saying those things. So what the fuck was happening.

 

Ah, hell. He'd just have to find out.

So he did as (possibly not) imaginary Rhodey asked, and opened his eyes.

 

To find a lot of people staring at him. Like, yes, there was Rhodey, but there was also a woman wearing a lab coat and camo, three people in scrubs, and another couple scattered around in varying stages of military dress.

Okay. Not in the sand.

 

“You called me a bastard,” Tony croaked. God his throat was dry. Hadn't they given him anything to drink? He'd been wandering in the _desert._ He needed fluids.

 

Rhodey veritably beamed at him, as a nurse offered him ice chips. Actually, maybe he was dead, because that was heavenly, but he was pretty sure he was going to hell-

“Tony. Focus man.”

Tony blinked. Right. Rhodey.

“Tony,” he repeated gently, like he was some sort of skittish animal. “They need to know what it is, and why you have it. Plus they're worried about infection. They managed to stop some of the bleeding and cleaned it out, but some of it is underneath... whatever it is, and they can't get to it without taking it out.”

Tony's breath caught in his throat.

_Don't take it out please I'll do anything-_

“Tony,” someone else said firmly.

Tony blinked, willing away some of the panic. It was the woman in camo and a lab coat. “Mr Stark, I'm Dr Pezuto. I performed yesterday's surgery on you, but that was only to stop the worst of the bleeding. I understand that we can't take it out, but there has to be some way we can work around it, since some of the bleeding is underneath.”

Tony squinted at her. She didn't look particularly threatening, but that didn't mean much. But he knew she was right. The crash had knocked something loose, and he could feel the ache deep in his chest, despite the painkillers.

He nodded. “There's conditions.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Alright.”

“I need to be awake during it,” he breathed.

The doctor shook her head. “Absolutely not. This is open heart surgery.”

“Kinda permanent,” he exhaled. “Th'open heart thing.”

She frowned at him. “It's not an option.”

“I can't have people diggin' around in m'chest if I'm unconscious,” he said firmly, which was kind of ruined when he had to punctuate his sentences with gasps every so often.

“And you can't be conscious. I'm sorry Mr Stark, but that isn't something we can negotiate.”

“You can't,” he insisted, grabbing her wrist and making one of the monitors behind him chirp. Rhodey stepped closer at that, obviously concerned, but Tony ignored him, tightening his grip on her wrist.

“Last time it was an emergency, kay. I get that. But the time before that I was 'wake for part of it. Without drugs. N'this time I need to fix things. So I hafta be 'wake.”

She straightened herself up to her full height, like that was supposed to scare Tony, who had gone toe to toe with businessmen and terrorists alike, and he wasn't sure who was more frightening.

“Mr Stark. As it is, this surgery will be extremely complicated, and we cannot further risk your safety by having you awake during it. It is in your best interest to help us create a plan before we start so we can ensure your safety during the procedure. We have some of the best doctors working on this, but without more imaging, we can't determine the extent of the damage or how the device even works.”

Tony closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

“I can tell you 'bout that. But you can't do th'whole thing 'n your own.”

 

Tony heard a whisper off to the side, and cracked open his eyes to see who it was. A shorter man with his arm in a sling was whispering to Rhodey, and really that wasn't fair, Rhodey was Tony's friend and he didn't want to share.

Which, okay, was maybe a little silly, but _still._

As the man turned, Tony recognized him. Sort of. Like someone he'd seen in a dream before. Although he'd been told at one point that everyone in a dream was someone you'd met at some point in your life, so maybe they had met.

“Who's'at?” Tony slurred, tilting his head towards the mystery man.

“Me?” he asked. “No one.”

“He's fine Tony,” Rhodey said soothingly, and he had to stop that, talking to him like he was a cat in a carrier or something hissing at everything. “He helped you out the other day. He's a doctor.”

Oh, Tony didn't doubt that. Tony was very certain that this man was safe, for reasons he didn't understand. And he _hated_ not understanding things. But whatever. There would be time for that.

“I want him,” he announced.

Dr Pezuto startled. “Why? You have an entire staff of professionals working for you.”

“An' him too.”

The man blinked at him. “No way,” he said. “I've got no clue what the hell that thing is. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm a little bit _shot._ ”

Tony squinted at him and shrugged with his eyebrows, since it was clear his shoulders were out of commission.

“You,” he repeated.

The doctor looked at him. “Well John?”

“Well what?” he gaped. “I've got no clue what he wants me to do. I can't perform surgery at the moment, since I only have the use of one arm, and I've got no experience in... engineering or physics or whatever the hell field that thing came from.”

“Proxy,” Tony grunted.

John blinked. “You want me to be your medical proxy? I don't know you.”

“Yeah, you do. Th'other day. You were watching me.”

John frowned. “You had a seizure.”

Tony stretched his mouth flat. “Don't remember. But my brain tells me you're good. And I trust my brain. Kept me alive this far.”

“What about your friend, James?”

Tony frowned. “When d'you meet him?”

John scowled at him. “Oh you know, spending a lot of time in a hospital is pretty dull. We watched telly together.”

“'M Tony Stark,” Tony told him, because surely that would clear things up.

John only blinked. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

Tony sighed, which was a mistake, because it hurt like _hell_ and he'd been through hell.

He might have stopped breathing for a moment, but only because ouch, and he was definitely going to start again, okay, that really wasn't necessary to get the masks and tubes out again.

If he had full range of motion of his arms he would have shoved the person away, but he didn't. So... he didn't. Whatever. That wasn't the point.

The man, John, had moved a step closer to the bed while he was doing his not breathing thing. Concerned then.

“Maybe,” he continued, like the past couple of minutes (or however long it was, he didn't know) hadn't happened. “Kinda famous. Lil bit rich. Weapons? Might have heard of them. Stark.”

“I didn't do much of the fighting,” John admitted. “More of the healing side of things.”

“S'why you'd be perfect,” Tony grunted. “C'mon doc. I pay well.”

John shot him a look of disdain. “I don't need your money.”

“Then do it for the challenge.”

Oh, there it was. That's what made this man tick. The challenge, the adrenaline, the thrill of it all. Tony had him now.

“I-”

He hesitated.

Tony grinned at him. “Y'know you wanna. S'exciting.”

John sighed, rolling his shoulder that wasn't injured and straightening himself up.

“Fine. But you need to tell me everything you can about that... thing. And the surgeons as well. I'm not going into this without all the information.”

“I can do that,” Tony agreed. “Pull up a chair. And make them leave,” he added, tilting his head in the direction of everyone else in the room. “You too platypus.”

Rhodey made a face at that, but filed out with everyone else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so if you follow me on tumblr (or don't yet, hint hint) I'm holding a giveaway because I hit a follower milestone. I'll be writing a fic for the winner(s).  
> So if you like my writing, and haven't entered yet, go for it!  
> [Check it out here.](http://ijustreallylovedaredevil.tumblr.com/post/125846597720)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert handwavey science here*  
> Which really, I think can be explained by Tony Stark on pain meds trying to explain it to people without an engineering background.

Despite his better judgement, John found himself acting as a medical proxy for a man he barely knew and had really only met the day before. Who was also apparently someone pretty important, kind of famous, and very rich.

So if he died, James was probably going to be very angry with him.

Well, John would just have to make sure that didn't happen then.

 

“Wait, let me clarify. Why weren't you killed immediately when a bomb exploded at such a close distance?”

Stark rolled his eyes. “Body armour, duh. M'not stupid.”

“The shrapnel made it through the body armour?”

Stark scowled at him. “How'd you get shot 'nyway?”

John only glared right back. He was fairly certain the man knew damn well how he got shot. He seemed to know everything. “And why couldn't the doctor get all of the shrapnel out the first time?”

“Cause we were in a fucking cave. Didn't even have 'naesthesia. Sucked. He took out what he could and patched m'up.”

Oh. Surgery without anaesthesia must have been absolutely horrific. John moved on, because Stark's pulse had gone up and he was looking panicked.

“How did you get from... what was it, a car battery? To this.”

“'M'a genius,” he huffed.

John rolled his eyes. “I'm not doubting that. But you were being held by terrorists, right? I'm guessing they didn't keep you for your charming personality, nor did they supply you with toys.”

Stark's eyes had closed, but he opened them back up to glare at John.

“You made a joke,” he stated.

“I can do that,” John replied.

“Didn't think you had't'n you.”

“There's a lot about me you don't know Mr Stark.”

“Tony. If you're gonna be my medical proxy y'can at least call me Tony.”

John frowned. “Alright.”

“An' they wanted me to make weapons. Tortured me. I gave in, an' then they gave me materials. 'Cept I didn't make em weapons, I built an miniature arc reactor. Got one back home, but bigger.”

“And it what, keeps the shrapnel out of your heart like the electromagnet did? But better, obviously, since you're not attached to a car battery.”

“S'not all. Pacemaker. Heart was d'maged. S'more important than the shrapnel part. Kills you quicker.”

John nodded. “Got it. But how does it attach? Is there a cable or something? Because it doesn't have to be disconnected completely, just detached so they can get at the rest of your chest.”

Tony tilted his head and considered it. Or maybe he got distracted. Exhaustion and pain could do that to a person. John gave him a minute before he'd start poking him.

“M'kay,” he said, right before John was about to start prodding. “The casing is 'tached right to m'ribs and sternum. It's in there for good. B'the pacemaker's got a wire, duh. S'not long 'nough t'come out, but you could make a hookup with you...” he trailed off, his fingers making twirling motions in the sheet. “I mean, the top part's the power source. S'what's underneath that s'important.”

John only blinked at him. “I'm not following.”

He grunted. “Need something to draw with.”

Doctor Pezuto passed him some charting paper and a pen, and Tony scowled. “S'old fashioned, but kay.” He started sketching a rough diagram of what John soon recognized as a chest. “Would be easier if it was a digital copy of m'chest x-ray, but someone doesn't want to share them, so.”

He glared briefly at the doctor as he said it, but returned to his drawing.

 

John realized shortly after that Tony was drawing left handed, which explained the shaky lines.

“You're right handed, aren't you?” he asked.

Tony glanced up at him. “Yeah. So?”

“The sling's in your way, isn't it?”

“S'not like you can just get rid of it,” Tony pointed out.

“No,” John agreed. “But we could accommodate your limited range of motion for you to be able to use your right arm.”

“Eh, I'll let you know if I need it. S'not bad.”

John had to agree. Tony's sketches were quite good for someone using their non dominant hand.

 

“I'm not sure how deep it goes,” Tony told them. “Sort of unconscious f'r that part. S'deeper than I'd like, of course.”

Right. Anything that penetrated into Tony's chest would be too deep.

“There's flexible joints 'tached to the ribs around here,” Tony continued, marking the spots on the diagram.

“Yes, we saw those on the x-ray,” Doctor Pezuto mentioned. “Clever, making them flexible.”

“Hard to breathe if they're not,” Tony replied.

“Very true,” John grinned.

 

Tony continued to outline the details of the reactor, how it fit into his chest, and how it functioned to keep him alive.

 

“Needs a new plate... round the edges. Patch up the wiring. Longer. Cleaner, all round.”

Tony was slurring all of his words now, and the pain was showing on his face.

“I think that's enough for tonight,” John said, taking the pen away from Tony's hand. He didn't even put up a fight. “I think you could do with some pain meds and then rest.”

He looked to Doctor Pezuto who nodded, and slipped out, probably to find a nurse.

Tony grumbled.

“You need to rest,” John told him. “There will be time tomorrow.”

Tony rolled his eyes in lieu of a protest.

John turned the flow of oxygen up in response. “Just rest.”

 

A nurse came in shortly after and injected pain meds into Tony's IV. John watched the wrinkles even out on his face. It was a fine line between pain management and respiratory suppression in Tony's case, since the man seemed to have a tolerance to a number of opioids already. John didn't want to consider what that meant.

 

Tony was asleep shortly after, and John returned to his own bed, finally feeling his own pain and exhaustion.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

John awoke in the night, and his first thought was that he'd been having a nightmare. That was usually why he woke up. But not this time. This time it was something else, something external. Noises. 

Tony.

 

Oh god, was it another seizure? He thought they'd gotten his fever down, and none of the monitors were going off, so unless they'd been silenced, which was unlikely considering the state he was in (or maybe he did it himself) then it had to be something else.

John yanked the curtain aside. It was a bit awkward one handed, and right handed no less, but he managed just fine.

 

Tony wasn't seizing. John was fairly certain of that. And his vitals were still within normal range, if a bit elevated.

No, it appeared to be... a nightmare?

The man was whimpering in his sleep and muttering things that John couldn't make out.

He wasn't sure he'd want to.

 

John stepped closer and placed a hand on the man's arm. “Tony,” he said. “Tony, wake up. You're okay. It's just a nightmare.”

He didn't wake, and continued making noises that sounded too close to sobbing for John's comfort.

John moved up Tony's arm to his good shoulder and squeezed. “Tony,” he said, louder this time. “Tony, wake up.”

That did the trick. Tony shot upright in his bed, chest heaving and eyes wide. He blurted something in Pashtu that John recognized.  _ I'm sorry. _

“Hey, Tony, you're okay. Breathe. It was a nightmare. You're in hospital. You're safe here. Do you want me to get Rhodes?”

“Rhodey?” Tony breathed.

“Do you want me to get him?”

Tony blinked at him, some recognition finally appearing in his eyes.

“You're the doctor guy,” he muttered. “My proxy.”

John nodded. “John Watson. Do you want me to get your friend?”

Tony shook his head, and exhaled, a shuddering sigh that seemed to pain him.

John eased him back onto his pillows. He was sleeping nearly upright because of the breathing difficulties the thing in his chest presented.

Tony closed his eyes and breathed for a minute, catching his breath, probably. John watched his sats rise.

“Want to talk about it?” he offered.

“Not really,” Tony grumbled.

“Oh thank god,” John sighed. “I didn't know how to. You should probably talk to someone though.” He waited for a moment, and when it became clear that Tony wasn't going to respond, he continued. “You know Pashtu?”

Tony grunted. “Basics. Enough to keep me alive.”

John nodded. “Most of the telly is in Pashtu or Dari, so that's a good thing.”

Tony cracked one eye open and grinned at him. “Thanks doc.”

“I'm not your doctor. I'm just... I'm just the guy in the bed next to you.”

Tony hummed as acknowledgement, and closed both eyes again.

John got the feeling he was being dismissed, and went back to his own bed.

 

* * *

 

John didn't sleep well the rest of the night, but it wasn't for lack of trying. He too was prone to nightmares, and even though he didn't have one that night, the fear was always there. Honestly, sometimes the fear of having a nightmare was worse than the nightmare itself.

 

When morning broke he was still exhausted.

 

Tony seemed to be rather cheerful, although that might have had something to do with the coffee he'd acquired. John had no clue how. He'd about kill for a decent cup of tea though.

 

He shuffled past Tony on the way to the loo, and wondered  _ again  _ why they were still in a room together. He'd thought that Tony would be airlifted out as soon as possible, and that the stalling over the surgery was just to allow him to get enough strength back to go back to America. But Tony appeared to be committed, which meant John was still on the hook.

And as long as he was, he was going to do his best.

 

“You're looking better,” John noted. It was true. His colour had been mostly restored, which could have had something to do with yet another transfusion, and the sunburn had faded. He no longer looked so sick, which didn't mean he wasn't, but certainly was a step in the right direction. His vitals had also improved, and he was satting well on minimal oxygen. He would be ready for the next surgery, provided the infection didn't make a reappearance.

 

John picked at his breakfast and waited for rounds. He tried to watch some telly with Tony, but the Pashtu only made him skittish, and John recognized PTSD when he saw it. He was also fairly certain that talking would yield no results, and it wasn't like they had anything else to talk about.

Tony had somehow acquired a tablet as well, and was working away feverishly, albeit one handed. Occasionally he'd mutter to it, words that John couldn't quite make out. He definitely heard the word 'holograms' at one point, and wondered if perhaps the fever was back, but a quick glance at the monitor proved him wrong.

Well, the man was a supposed genius, and John would have to give him the benefit of the doubt. For now anyway. If he started talking to people who weren't there, he would be calling a nurse.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Tony spent most of the morning working on designs after the Incident, as he was coming to call it, the nightmare he'd had only to be woken up by his newly designated proxy who was camped out in the bed next to him. He'd gotten the digital images of his chest x-ray, and while he wasn't sure what to expect, it was still more horrific than he could have imagined.

Still, he spent the better part of the morning sketching out ways that the surgical team could clean out underneath the reactor, as well as fit a new base plate in. He figured as long as they were in there, he might as well have everything done at once. And whatever they wanted to do in the first place. Bleeding or something. Yeah, that would also be good.

 

After the first surgery (that he most certainly did _not_ consent to) they'd put a drain in, and it was still oozing blood and what he assumed was pus.

So, yeah, infection not quite gone, although he certainly felt better than he had the first day, when he was nearly delirious with fever and pain and had apparently had a seizure. He kind of didn't remember that. Except for the guy who was staring at him. That stood out for some reason.

He was still on heavy duty antibiotics and painkillers and oxygen and fluids and probably a dozen other things he wasn't even aware of.

And it still hurt. Of course. A man didn't just have a hole sawed in his chest in a cave and expect it to not hurt. He honestly wasn't sure how he'd managed the pain before, but he suspected it was a combination of the fear and adrenaline that allowed him to build the suit and get out of there.

And he blamed the landing for fucking up a lot of shit in his chest. And the surgery. And the chest tube probably wasn't helping.

 

And on top of that, nearly everything else hurt too. His shoulder (which totally had been dislocated, which he took some pleasure in knowing he'd been able to diagnose it) still hurt every day, and it was hard to do things without a shoulder. Shoulders were important.

 

He had a point that he was getting to.

Right, the breathing.

He'd forgotten how easy breathing used to be. Just in and out. Just like that. There was a reason the saying was 'as easy as breathing'. It was supposed to be just that, easy and uncomplicated and simply there.

And it wasn't anymore. It was something that required effort and too much energy and caused him pain.

Not that he'd mentioned it.

Despite popular opinion, Tony didn't enjoy being a pain in the ass. Well. Not all the time anyway. Not unintentionally.

 

So he tried not to move much and focused on his designs to fix himself, because if he didn't have that, he had nothing.

 

Except _some_ doctors, mentioning no names, mostly because he still wasn't sure on names, insisted that he do other things that were not good uses of his time.

The short man with the sling, and yes, Tony should really know his name considering he'd sort of adopted him as medical proxy (sorry Rhodey) was standing at the foot of his bed with a meal tray in his good hand.

“You have surgery tomorrow, you've still got to eat today. Keep your strength up, and whatnot.”

Tony frowned at him. He really wasn't hungry, and he didn't know why, because it wasn't like he'd been eating a lot before he was rescued. Maybe his stomach shrank or something.

 

But the guy seemed really insistent, and also kind of like a puppy, and Tony was having a hard time saying no to him.

“Yeah, okay,” he sighed, which was a mistake because _fuck that hurt._ The guy, damn what was his name, looked on in concern as Tony clutched his recently rebroken ribs and tried to breathe through the pain.

His vision darkened, and he heard something behind him start beeping, but Jack or Joe or John, yes, that was it, John, reached behind him and pressed a button or something and it stopped.

He blinked the darkness away and finally looked up to find John holding a pillow to his chest. So that was strange.

Tony blinked at him. “What're you doing?”

“Splinting your broken ribs. It helps, doesn't it?”

Tony couldn't explain it (could have been a side effect of the oxygen deprivation or the pain) but yeah it did help. He took over clutching the pillow to his chest, which supported his sore ribs without actually hurting them too much.

“You still have to eat,” John added.

Tony might have giggled a little at that, but it didn't end as badly because of the pillow.

 

He ate a fruit cup and some cookies, and John seemed content with that.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Seeing that John was sort of Tony's medical proxy, he was given access to his medical records, which included a lot of tests and labs, some of which he didn't even know how to interpret. The x-rays were generally an overall mess, and since they couldn't MRI him (the metal, first of all), the CT scans of his chest were the best they could do. Which wasn't that great, since the man had a limited lung capacity, and couldn't really hold his breath long enough for them to get the images. Not like an MRI would have been any better, since it took even longer, but that wasn't the point.

John wasn't sure what the point was anymore.

 

But Tony's labs had improved, which was good, considering he was on his third day of hospitalization. The first day was when he arrived in the afternoon and had the first surgery, when he was suffering from the infection, dehydration, and a lot of other injuries from whatever the hell had happened to him out in the desert. His second day was mostly spent recovering and explaining to him and the other doctors about the thing in his chest, and today, the third day, he'd spent most of it working on something. The infection had receded, and his white blood cell count had gone down. With the transfusions, his hematocrit and hemoglobin had risen to nearly normal levels, and his electrolytes were within an acceptable range. Doing pretty well then.

 

There were still concerns of course. John heard whispers. Even though he'd been deemed the man's proxy, the medical team still didn't tell him everything, and that was probably for the best. Normal medical proxies weren't told everything, and he didn't want to be an exception.

Except that both Tony and Rhodes seemed to be under the impression he _should_ know everything. So that was a bit difficult.

 

But John made sure Tony ate and showed him how to splint his sore ribs with a pillow when he laughed, and woke him from his nightmares, so he figured he was doing a pretty good job of it.

 

It was the surgical side that he was still clueless with, despite sitting by Tony's bed for hours as he explained the design of the thing in his chest, and how it would have to be modified to continue working without killing him.

 

John had never really been one for engineering, which seemed to be Tony's speciality. He only understood enough to comprehend that Tony's life did indeed depend on it. It was acting as a sort of magnet, keeping the shrapnel that couldn't be removed from entering his heart, but it was also a pacemaker. One that was apparently much further advanced than any that Doctor Pezuto had seen, even in the military.

 

“Why can't they just put in a normal pacemaker?” John asked.

Tony rolled his eyes at him. “Where? Have you seen the x-rays of my chest? There are wires and electrodes everywhere. Even if they were removed, the scar tissue wouldn't be conducive to implanting new ones. Plus, I'd still need it for the shrapnel.”

“Right,” John muttered. “Which can't be removed?”

“No, wow, how many times do I have to tell you people that?”

It was John's turn to roll his eyes. “More apparently. You're not a surgeon though. How would you know?”

“Oh, like you are.”

“Well, I am actually.”

Tony scoffed. “Whatever.”

John smirked at him. He was kind of pleased that the great Tony Stark had nothing to say to that.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Tony was restless all that evening. Everything was prepared for the surgery, all the parts that needed to be made were finished, and were undergoing sterilization. Schematics and x-rays had been drawn on. Check lists had been made. Every single team member had been briefed on their role during the surgery, whether it would be to control anaesthesia, which was a normal operating thing, or to hold the arc reactor above Tony's chest, which was not.

 

But Tony was still restless. Perhaps it was the lack of work that made him that way. He did seem to be most content when he had something to do, to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied.

John just didn't know how to do that.

There was nothing left about the surgery for him to focus on, it was all just triple checking schematics and designs, and it was making even John anxious.

 

“How about we do something else?”

Tony glanced sideways at him. “Like what?”

John shrugged with one shoulder. “Anything other than obsessing over your surgery. I don't have cards, but I do have paper. Hangman?”

Tony grinned.

 

He grabbed for the pen and John handed it to him. After thinking for a minute, he drew a series of lines on the page, and built a stage for the man to hang on.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

John squinted at it. “E?”

 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _E_ _ _ _E_ _E

 

He continued with vowels. “A?”

 

A _ _ _ _ _ _ _A_ _ _ _E_ _ _ _E_ _E

 

“M?”

Tony grinned at him and drew a head.

“L?”

 

A_ _ _ _ _ _ _AL _ _ _ELL_ _E_ _E

 

“O?”

Tony drew the spine of a stick person.

John winced. “R?”

 

AR_ _ _ _ _ _AL _ _ _ELL_ _E_ _E

“N?” he guessed.

 

AR_ _ _ _ _ _AL _ N _ELL_ _EN_E

 

John frowned. There had to be another vowel in the first word, and maybe more in the second word as well. Just a question of U or I.

“I?”

 

AR_I_I_IAL IN_ELLI_EN_E

 

John grinned. “Good choice.”

“Yeah, but the real question is, can you solve it from that or not?”

John examined it for another minute. “Artificial intelligence,” he announced. “Is that really what you're thinking about right now?”

Tony glanced away. “There's this program at home... I just hope... since I've been gone for so long...” He shook his head. “I'm just worrying too much.”

“That you wrote?”

Tony nodded.

John whistled. “Just don't let it take over the world, okay?”

Tony grinned. “Promise. Your turn,” he told John, passing the pen over.

 

John considered a word. Tony had gone with something related to his interests. And long, which meant the odds were in John's favour if he was just guessing randomly. Maybe something without an E.

_Atrial fibrillation._

 

He drew the lines on the paper and drew a stand to hang the man on.

“E?” Tony guessed.

John grinned and drew a head.

 

* * *

 

Tony's attention drifted when it was his turn to guess letters, and by the time the man was hung, John knew that he wasn't paying any attention to the game.

But Tony still didn't look tired, or at least look like he was about to sleep any time soon.

 

“Do you want me to get you a sedative?” he asked finally. “You really should sleep. I need to sleep. Sleep needs to be had all around.”

Tony scowled at him, but gave in.

 

John didn't give him the meds himself, but he did fetch the nurse to do it.

As soon as Tony's eyelids started drooping, John laid down in his own bed and fell asleep almost right away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow the spaces for hangman got taken out. Shrug.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *handwaves at arc reactor science again*

John had almost missed surgery.

 

That's what he thought for the first twenty minutes, when it was still routine and normal, just like it had been when he was in med school.

Then everything went to hell, because there was literally no other way for it to go when you were dealing with miniaturized and advanced technology implanted into a man's chest.

So yes, John was regretting agreeing to this.

 

But considering Tony was anaesthetized, it was a little late to change his mind.

 

Technically it wasn't open heart surgery, because like Tony had pointed out, it was sort of open heart all the time. And he didn't require bypass. The pacemaker and ICD were already in place, how he'd gotten the parts for them in a cave, John didn't know. Hell, the man had probably wired them together from spare weapon parts, which was damn impressive. If this wasn't so highly classified, it would be huge in the medical journals.

 

It was mostly damage control, because like Tony had reiterated so many times, the first surgery was in a cave.

And it was strange that he mentioned it so often, because it was clearly a trigger for him. Anything medical seemed to be. John couldn't blame him. Surgery without anaesthesia would have been a bitch, and recovering without advanced medical equipment and medications must have been harrowing.

So John bit his tongue and didn't ask, no matter how much he wanted to. He stuck to what was needed to do the surgery.

 

He still didn't understand the entire structure of the arc reactor, or how it fit in Tony's body, but apparently he was the one who understood the best out of all of them, which was just wrong. He wasn't the one doing the surgery.

But the surgeons, bless them, had been patient with John as he tried to translate what he understood from Tony's ramblings. The drawings and diagrams were enormously helpful, so at least he knew they wouldn't be cutting anything vital. And Tony had even made the hardware they'd need to fix the things inside his chest. John really understood why he wanted to be conscious for the surgery, but at the same time knew it would have been a completely awful idea.

 

So they'd replaced a bunch of wires that connected the arc reactor to whatever was inside Tony's chest, and the extra length gave them to room to remove it. That's where it was sitting, a couple inches above his chest cavity, held by one of the nurses. The blue light glowed on his face.

Doctor Pezuto was removing damaged tissue and fitting Tony's chest for the new metal ring that he'd ordered be made. The bleeding hadn't resumed from the other day, but she checked anyway. The infection was also under control, but she thoroughly cleaned out the cavity in his chest before fitting the new ring.

John was standing a ways back, gowned and masked and everything, sling underneath. He wasn't sure why he was there, honestly. Probably just to make sure someone didn't grab the arc reactor and try to run.

 

That was when a monitor started to go off. Tony was in ventricular tachycardia.

“We have to shock him,” one of the many masked doctors said.

“No!” John told them. “You can't.”

“He's in v-tach,” the anaesthesiologist pointed out. “What do you suggest we do?”

“It acts as a pacemaker. It should be restoring his rhythm. So why isn't it?” he demanded. He glared at the nurse holding the arc reactor above Tony's chest. He paled at the accusation.

 

“John is right,” Doctor Pezuto said. “Check the wiring.” She peered into Tony's chest while another doctor examined the external wiring.

“Got it,” she said after a second. “This wire was damaged by the cauterization. It'll need to be replaced.”

“What are we supposed to do about the v-tach?” the anaesthesiologist asked.

John wanted to slap her. “Drugs. Try lidocaine or amiodarone. How long will it take to replace the wire?”

Doctor Pezuto was already hard at work. “Not long at all. Just keep him stable.”

 

It was a tense few minutes. The anaesthesiologist pushed the drugs, and John watched Tony's rhythm stabilize for a short period before deteriorating into v-tach again. Thankfully, Doctor Pezuto finished replacing the wire, and slowly, but surely, Tony's heart rhythm returned to normal.

Everyone exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

 

The rest of the surgery went a lot more smoothly. Doctor Pezuto placed the metal that would house the arc reactor and then cleaned Tony's chest out once more. She threw in a few stitches to hold the metal in place while it healed, and then replaced the arc reactor in his chest. She then bandaged everything up, looking at her handiwork with pride.

 

“Let's leave him intubated for now. His lung volume is compromised as it is, and with the pain, I don't think he'd take deep enough breaths. Vitals are still good?” she asked the anaesthesiologist.

She nodded in response. “No more runs of abnormal rhythms. The pacemaker appears to be functioning normally.”

“Good. Nicely done everyone.”

 

When John left the operating theatre, he practically collapsed into the nearest chair. He hadn't realized how tired he was, or how tightly wound he'd been. A few minutes later, they wheeled Tony out of the theatre and back into his room. One of the nurses was manually bagging him. He didn't look good, persay, but he didn't look bad for having been through a fairly major surgery.

 

John would go and check on him soon. Just after he finished resting.

 


	13. Chapter 13

John might have fallen asleep in that chair for a little while, before one of the nurses woke him up, concerned that he'd hurt his shoulder further.

He had to admit, it was a bit stiff.

 

It hadn't been too long though, so he went to check on Tony. He was still sedated, the drugs wouldn't wear off for a bit yet, and he was resting comfortably.

So he pulled up a chair and settled in. His shoulder was still uncomfortable, but not painful, exactly. He'd been neglecting his physical therapy in the last couple of days, and it was evident.

 

John sighed, removing the sling, and get to work stretching the damaged muscles. He knew better than anyone that if he wanted full range of motion to return, he'd have to work for it.

 

In the bed, Tony slept on, his mechanical breathing covering the muttered curses that accompanied John's stretching.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John settled back in the chair with a book once he finished what he deemed to be enough PT. His therapist would likely argue with him, but he'd had a long morning, and wasn't looking to collapse into bed in a few short hours. He had to keep an eye on Tony.

 

Rhodes had been by to visit, but he was acutely uncomfortable with all the medical paraphernalia that surrounded his best friend, and John reminded him that he didn't have to stay.

Rhodes nodded his thanks and promised to be back when Tony was awake.

 

John turned the page of his book. He wasn't sure what the plot was, and he didn't remember anything he'd read, but he was reading. Sort of.

 

Then Tony started to wake up.

His heart rate spiked first. That was the clue that the sedation was lightening. Slight twitching movements in his limbs. He was waking up.

 

It was a split second too late that John realized that Tony was restrained so he wouldn't extubate himself in his sleep. For a man who had been kept prisoner for months, there couldn't have been anything worse to wake up to, disoriented and in pain.

 

That's when it all went to hell, Tony's eyes shooting open and him bucking against the restraints. His back arched off the bed, and John knew that was going to hurt. He was only a couple hours post surgery, so _god_ it was going to hurt.

John got to his feet, pressed the call button, because he'd bet that Tony would need to be sedated after this, and tried to get in his face to calm him down.

“Tony, it's John,” he said, getting right in his line of sight and holding his upper arm firmly with his good hand. “You just had surgery. You are safe. I know you're scared, but I need you to calm down because you're going to hurt yourself.”

Tony was still fighting his restraints, his eyes wild and his heart rate way above normal.

“Tony. Tony, listen to me.”

The brown eyes found him.

“Tony, you're okay. I need you to stop fighting. You're in the hospital. You just had surgery. Do you understand?”

There were people rushing in behind him, and he hoped they figured out that Tony needed to be sedated. He had calmed down a bit, but John knew it wouldn't be enough without the medication.

 

One of the nurses injected something into one of the many IV ports. John crossed his fingers it was indeed a sedative.

“Tony, look at me,” John ordered. Tony obeyed, despite the heart monitor beeping rapidly in the background. He was still panicking, but less than before.

“Tony, you're okay. You're safe. Remember me? I'm John.”

 

Tony's eyes glazed over a bit. He relaxed back into the bed.

“Good,” John nodded. “That's good. We'll take the restraints off now.” He nodded to one of the nurses, who checked with Doctor Pezuto before obeying.

Tony flexed his wrists. He was relaxing even more as the meds took effect.

“And if the doctor is okay with it, we can see about taking that tube out.” He turned to Doctor Pezuto.

After examining the monitors, she nodded. “Yes, we can.”

John stepped aside and let the respiratory therapist take over. He'd shown up some time during the chaos, and John hadn't noticed until now.

 

John didn't watch the extubation, because he'd been through it himself before, and once was enough.

 

He did look back when Tony was breathing on his own, albeit hesitantly against the pain in his chest. The respiratory therapist was holding a mask to his mouth and talked him through slow, deep breaths. Tony wasn't quite cooperative. He probably felt like his chest was threatening to split apart, and he wasn't entirely wrong.

 

Slowly but surely, Tony's breathing evened out, and some of the crowd left the room. Soon all that remained was the respiratory therapist, John, and a nurse.

Soon even the respiratory therapist left, replacing Tony's mask with a nasal cannula. An incentive spirometer was left behind. John knew it would be difficult to get Tony to use it, but it was a necessary evil.

Then even the nurse was gone, leaving John alone with Tony, who was eyeing him warily. The sedative had definitely taken effect, and he was calm considering the situation.

 

“So. How you feeling?” he asked.

Tony only rolled his eyes.

“Shit,” he growled. He paused. “Thirsty.”

“Ah,” John remarked. He got to his feet and poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.

He grabbed a straw, because Tony's arms would be pretty useless for the next little while. At least not without a significant amount of pain.

Tony slurped at it appreciatively.

 

He sank back into the pillows and John set the cup down, pulling a chair over to sit in.

“How'd it go?”

John decided that wouldn't be the best time to tell the man his heart had nearly stopped. “Fine. A few bumps, but nothing that the surgical team wasn't prepared for.”

Tony scrutinized him, like he could tell John wasn't telling him the entire truth, but didn't seem to have the energy to push the point.

He just hummed instead.

 

John didn't really know what else to say after that.

“Do you want me to get Rhodes in here? He stopped by earlier, when you were unconscious, but...”

“He doesn't like the medical stuff.” Tony grinned. “The first time he saw me he thought it was a bomb. That the terrorists let me go, but with a bomb in my chest. You know how hard it was to tell him that it wasn't, that it was something I helped put there?”

John didn't know what to say to that either. Words weren't coming easily. Thankfully Tony said something before it got awkward.

“No, he can come by tomorrow. I don't want to put him through something like that again.”

Tony gazed off at something John couldn't see.

“You should rest,” John told him.

“I've been resting,” Tony muttered.

“Sedation isn't the same as sleeping,” John reminded.

Tony scoffed, but closed his eyes.

 

John picked his book back up and started over, since it wasn't like anything had sunk in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“They had my weapons,” Tony mumbled. John startled. He thought the other man was sleeping.

“What's that?” he asked, leaning in closer.

“The terrorists. They had my weapons. My own weapons did this to me.”

“Oh,” John said. He honestly didn't know what to say to that. What could someone say to that? 'Sorry that you designed weapons that nearly killed you.'

“I know, the irony right?” Tony muttered, one corner of his mouth turning up in what could be a smile. “If I was a superhero I could be Irony Man.”

John considered that. Tony was drugged and half asleep, so he'd let him dream.

“Sure,” he agreed. “Of course you could.”

Tony smiled and drifted off into sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tony didn't wake up again until the next morning. Or if he did, John didn't know. He did go to his own bed around midnight, reluctant to leave in case Tony woke up panicking again.

But he knew that he was still recovering and needed his sleep as well. The sutures were set to come out of his shoulder the next day, and he was looking forward to that.

 

So he sank into bed, one ear listening out in case Tony's monitor went off, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning, John went to see Doctor Pezuto so she could remove the final sutures from his shoulder.

She removed the dressing and examined the wound, poking and prodding at it. John tried not to wince.

“I'd like to leave them in another day or so,” Doctor Pezuto told him.

John's heart sank. “Alright,” he sighed. He didn't like it, but he trusted her judgement.

“I'll come see them in two more days, see how it's coming along. I just don't want to take them out, only to have a larger scar develop. Might as well minimize it, as long as we're able to.”

John nodded, and she bandaged him back up.

“How's Stark?” she asked. She wasn't asking about his medical state, because that she could find out easily. She was asking about how he was taking the whole thing.

“I think he's doing okay,” John admitted. “He's got a long way to go, but it's a start.”

She nodded at him. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

When John got back, Tony was awake and in more of a sitting position. He was also attempting to feed himself gelatin, which was not going well.

John restrained himself from giggling.

“Need some help?” he offered.

Tony glanced at him, and back down at his bowl. “How long have you been there for?”

“Long enough,” John affirmed. “I know what it's like to have a useless arm, and you've got two.”

He sat down next tot Tony and scooped up some of the gelatin onto the spoon.

“Combined with your dislocated shoulder, a lot of your chest muscles have experienced trauma. A bunch of them had to be cut to make space in your chest for that thing, and whatever you did out in the desert, I'd guess a fall of some sort, only hurt them further.”

Tony hummed a confirmation, his mouth full of gelatin. He swallowed. “I might have sort of... crash landed.”

John frowned, and offered another spoonful to Tony. “How do you crash in the desert? There's literally only sand, for miles and miles.”

“I crashed into the sand, duh,” Tony said around the gelatin.

“But how?” John insisted.

“I made a sort of... escape device. I shot up into the air, but unfortunately...”

“You came back down.”

Tony nodded.

“Ouch,” John winced.

“Yep. That's how the shoulder got dislocated, and how things got... pushed around in my chest. The reactor was doing just fine before that. No surgery needed.”

“I doubt that.”

“Okay, less surgery, and certainly no emergency surgery,” Tony corrected.

John nodded. That was closer.

 

* * *

 

The chest tube was removed the next day along with the drainage tube. The incentive spirometer was getting used, and Tony's lung function, although weak, was improving.

He also managed to feed himself, not just gelatin, but pancakes. (He did need help cutting them, because otherwise he sort of just... lifted the whole thing up to his mouth and bit pieces off, but John didn't really know him well enough to know if that was a normal thing or not. He just really hoped it wasn't.)

 

* * *

 

On the third day post op, Tony was up and out of bed. His one arm was still in a sling. It hadn't been a bad dislocation, and didn't need surgery, but it would cause Tony pain for a while.

 

Of course, the thing annoying Tony the most was the clothing. He'd been in a gown up until then, since he wasn't really able to get out of bed, and it was the easiest for the doctors to get access to his incisions. But now, with a bunch of the tubes gone and Tony being able to get out of bed, he was determined to wear real clothes.

John wasn't sure what that meant to Tony Stark. Suits, probably.

He had to settle for scrubs that a lot of the patients wore. A definite improvement over a gown, sure, but not up to Tony's standards.

 

“This is terrible,” he announced. He was looking at himself in the only full length mirror they'd been able to locate, all the way down the hall. Tony had gotten his friend to drag his equipment for him, and John was just along for the ride.

“Terrible,” he repeated.

Rhodes was trying not to laugh at him, and John was grinning himself.

“Blue's a good colour for you,” he offered.

Tony glared at him in the mirror, and John shrugged with his good arm.

Blue was a good colour for Tony, although John suspected there were no bad colours for Tony. The scrubs were too bit though, and dragged on the ground. Rhodes had tried to roll them up, but because the legs were so wide around, failed miserably.

 

John suspected that Tony would have crossed his arms to glare at them if he was able, but as it was, his one arm was in the sling and the other was hooked to the IV. Plus, crossing arms put pressure on his chest that would no doubt be painful, and Tony was only on the minimum amount of painkillers. On his insistence.

 

“Okay, back to bed,” John told him. “No more sulking about how the clothes don't fit. You walked all the way here, so I expect you to be able to walk all the way back, got it?”

Tony glared at him, but started on the long shuffle back to bed. Rhodes pulled the IV stand along.

 

When Tony was settled, having made it back, although a bit worse for wear, Rhodes left with the promise to get Tony clothes that actually fit.

John sat down next to him and considered asking.

He finally did.

“So, why the resistance to the pain meds?” he asked.

Tony glanced at him. “What resistance? No resistance here.”

“You're on minimum doses, and that's only because your heart rate was too high without it. Because you're in pain.”

Tony waved a hand.

“I know a thing or two about pain,” John said wryly.

“No doubt,” Tony replied. “But what about addiction?”

John thought about Harry, about how it was always one more drink, one last drink, about how this time it would be different, she would be different. That this time it was for good.

“More than I'd like to,” he admitted.

“John, look. I was in a cave for almost three months. Not much of an opportunity to do any drinking there, unless we made potato vodka or something. Not that we had potatoes. You know what scares me the most about going home?”

“The thing in your chest wiping half of the country off the map?”

“Your country, maybe, but not mine. It's too big.” His features hardened. “No, the thing I'm most scared of is getting drunk my first night back and ruining all of this.”

“Oh,” John said.

Tony nodded. “And believe me, morphine is way better than drinking, even if it is the expensive stuff that only I can afford. So minimizing it is the best I can do in the hopes that I won't become addicted.”

John knew that the doctors wouldn't let that happen, that his doses were carefully planned so that Tony wouldn't fall over the edge that lead to addiction, but he also knew the fear.

So he didn't tell Tony any of that, and just nodded instead.

 

And then he pushed the incentive spirometer in Tony's direction, because he wouldn't be getting off that easily.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Five days after Tony's second surgery, John developed a fever.

His shoulder wasn't infected though, so he wasn't sure why.

By that evening, his leg was aching and despite antipyretics and antibiotics, his fever wasn't improving.

 

He faded in and out for a while, and only vaguely noticed they took him for x-rays, but he sure as hell noticed when he woke up next and had a central line. He did not sign up for that.

“The fuck...” he muttered, and pushed the call button.

 

Doctor Pezuto came in with x-rays and a grim expression on her face. John frowned. “What is it? Why do I have a central line?”

She sighed, propping up the x-rays in the light box for John to see. “Looks like osteomyelitis John. In your femur. We're worried about it being MRSA, so we've got cultures, and we're giving you vancomycin.”

John didn't really make it past 'osteomyelitis', let alone that other stuff. “What?”

“Hematogenous probably. It's just taken a while for the infection to settle in and take hold.”

John frowned. “I was shot in the shoulder. How did it get down there?”

“It can spread through the blood or nearby tissue. But you know that's not what's important right now. The treatment is what matters.”

John sighed, and rolled his head to the other side of the pillow where it was cooler.

“But I was getting so close,” he whispered.

Doctor Pezuto patted his good shoulder. “You'll still get there John.”

He closed his eyes. He knew that. Of course he knew that. But he didn't want to wait and recover and wait and stay in this awful hospital any longer.

He wanted to go _home._ He was done with war.

 

 

* * *

 

 

With that, the tables turned. John remained ill while Tony improved.

Instead of John sitting at Tony's bedside, Tony paced around John's room. The man couldn't seem to sit still, despite having major surgery a week ago.

John suspected it was more a matter of determination more than anything.

 

His fever wasn't very well controlled, even with the use of antipyretics, and the day and night tended to blur together. Sometimes he would find himself staring off into space and not know why, or how long he'd been doing it for.

 

Often he would wake to Tony rambling on about something or other.

 

“I mean, Pepper's great, you know? She puts up with all of my shit and pretty much does everything for me. I'd probably be lost without her. In fact, I came to Afghanistan without her, and look what happened.” He laughed bitterly and winced as it pulled on his damaged chest muscles.

He was looking better, John noted.

Tony spotted him looking. “Oh hey, you're awake.”

John nodded. “What time is it?”

“Like, 10 at night. It's been a long day.” He paused, before adding “I'm six days post op. I'm allowed to be up,” Tony informed him.

John smiled. “I know.”

“Good. Also, you're terrible company.”

John smiled again. “That kind of happens when someone is unconscious,” he agreed. “But you didn't hear me complaining about you being unconscious.”

“Well I wouldn't have heard you, now would I?”

John conceded his point. “Who's this Pepper you're talking about?”

“Oh, she's my PA.”

“Sounds like you care about her,” John observed.

Tony waved a hand. “I don't have a lot of people in my life.”

“Really?” John asked mildly. “With all your money.”

“I'm not sure if you've heard this, but money can't buy happiness. Or friendship.”

“People with money are generally happier.”

“Happiness, okay, but friendship? Not so much. You never know if they're after your money or who you really are. Or your body,” he added.

John smirked at that.

“So generally I'm a dick to everyone, and if they hang around, it's a pretty good indication it's for the money. Sex is generally a one hit thing.”

“What about the people you do have in your life?”

Tony shrugged with his one good shoulder. “I kept being a dick, and they stayed. Longer than could be explained by the money.”

John tilted his head on the pillow, trying to follow Tony's path around the room. He was sure there was a pattern to it that he just hadn't figured out yet. “That's got to be hard.”

Tony shrugged. “I haven't known any different. I was pretty much born into this life, so...”

John hummed. “Still doesn't make it any easier.”

Tony shrugged again. “I think things will be different... after this.”

“You think your money is going to disappear or your charming personality?”

Tony sneered. “Funny, really. My personality is just as charming as ever, thank you. On the other hand, all my money could be gone by the time I get back. But that's not what I was referring to. More the whole...” he gestured to his chest.

“Ah,” John realized. “You're referring to the people using you for your body thing.”

Tony nodded. “My playboy days are over,” he sighed dramatically. He winced.

“Still hurt?” John asked.

“I don't think it will ever stop,” Tony muttered, rubbing at his chest.

“Maybe not,” John admitted. “Nothing like this has ever been done before, so it's hard to say. It's pretty invasive, so there is a good chance that you will experience chronic pain.”

Tony sat down at that, still rubbing his chest absently.

“How about you? How's your... I'm not sure what's broken right now, is it the shoulder?”

John smirked. “Thanks for your concern. Technically nothing is broken. My shoulder is on the mend, but I've got an infection in my femur now. Not entirely sure how, but it happened. That's what the heavy duty drugs are for.”

“Oh. Ew.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “Just as I thought I was on the rebound, something new.”

“How much longer will you be here for?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “Antibiotics for this type of infection are usually given over a period of weeks to months. Hopefully I won't have to be here for the entire time though. If there's no complications, I could go home on leave for the duration of it, but if the fever's still bad, they'll want to keep me.”

Tony nodded.

“Rhodes is making arrangements for you to go home soon, right?” John asked.

“Yeah.”

“Bringing you nice clothes?”

Tony glanced down at the sweats he was wearing. An improvement on the scrubs, for sure, but not really appropriate for going home, where there would no doubt be a large crowd to greet him.

He nodded. “Measured me for a new suit. I've lost a lot of weight,” he admitted.

“Surgery does that,” John said quietly. He'd lost a lot of muscle mass while in the hospital.

“And torture,” Tony agreed.

John winced.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You're the one who went through it.” Exactly what he had gone through, Tony hadn't said. He didn't need to.

Tony shrugged, using both shoulders. He probably shouldn't be doing that yet, John noted, but he still had the one arm in a sling, so he couldn't really argue. He wasn't Tony's proxy anymore.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

John's fever improved slowly over the next day and he was awake more, a fact that Tony seemed far too pleased about. Of course, he was probably just bored of not having anyone to talk to, since Rhodes was off planning travel arrangements to get Tony home safely. Security was an issue. From what John gathered, Tony had been taken from a humvee that contained at least three soldiers, all of whom died.

So... yeah, security.

 

“So why did you sign up for the army?” Tony asked him. He'd acquired a wheely chair that must have belonged to one of the doctors.

“I never really did. I joined the RAMC. Not quite the same.”

“Really awesome military cops?”

John snorted. “Nice try, but no. Royal Army Medical Corps.” He shrugged with his good shoulder. “I knew I wanted to join up before I started uni, and I applied for a scholarship. They give you money to support your schooling, and then you join up with them for a certain number of years after you graduate.”

“And why did you want to join up? Was it about the scholarships and getting the education? Or was it about serving your country or whatever.”

John considered it. “Well, what about you? Why do you make weapons?”

Tony's face hardened. “It's what we always did. And I was good at it. That's going to change though.”

“You know, from what I've seen, you're good at a lot of things. Designing that thing in your chest. It's not a weapon, is it?”

“It could be,” Tony whispered. “In the wrong hands, and there are always people out there who will abuse power, no matter how much good it could do. That's why it's staying with me.”

He tapped his chest. “Right in here.”

John smiled and closed his eyes. He was tired. “Sounds like a good idea,” he agreed.

“Hey, what about you? You didn't answer my question.”

John hummed. “Later,” he promised.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the next day, his fever was almost down to normal, and Tony greeted him in a suit.

John blinked. Right. He was leaving.

 

With all the excitement (and fever and pain) John almost forgot that Tony was being flown home that day.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“Leaving soon?”

Tony nodded. “Sorry,” he offered. “Kinda sucks to be you and have to stay here longer.”

Tony stared at the ground instead of at John, but he knew it was the best he was going to get.

He nodded his thanks. “I'll be here for a while still,” he sighed, gesturing to the central line delivering the heavy duty antibiotics.

Tony nodded, with what almost appeared to be sympathy.

“Hope you get better soon.”

“Same,” John agreed.

“Hey, if you're ever in New York or Malibu, stop by.”

John tilted his head. “Okay,” he agreed. They both knew John would never take Tony up on his offer, but neither wanted to say it.

 

John watched him go, pushed in a wheelchair by Rhodes, which Tony protested about the entire time, even though everyone knew he wouldn't be able to walk the whole way.

Tony would go home and get better, hopefully work through a lot of the psychological crap he went through. John would stay in Afghanistan until he got better, then he would go back to fighting a war that had cost more than simply lives. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to be a part of it anymore.

 


	17. Chapter 17

John didn't exactly get better though. The infection spread and the antibiotics weren't working and there were surgeries involved, and finally when the antibiotics started working, his kidneys gave up. It wasn't unexpected, even John knew it was a side effect, but it wasn't really something that could be so easily treated here.

So they sent him home.

 

They sent him home for dialysis and physical therapy and he healed eventually, but it wasn't the same and his leg ached all the time and throbbed when it was about to rain and everything reminded him of the war and the gunmetal in his bedside drawer, and they invalided him out and gave him a pension, then he almost thought about how it would taste.

 

But instead he took the long way around and ran into Mike Stamford.

The rest was sort of history.

 

And apparently Tony did well. John kept up to date on the news, which Sherlock never understood. John didn't tell him; it was one last secret he had. (Tony did become a superhero, that jackass. And he didn't name himself Irony Man, but just Iron Man.)

Tony nearly died repeatedly, then saved the world when aliens invaded Manhattan. In fact, he just kept nearly dying and saving the world in turn, and John was confident that he'd just keep doing that, because Tony Stark was a stubborn bastard who refused to die, no matter what happened. In fact, John wasn't entirely sure that anything could kill Tony.

 

Reminded him of someone else he knew.

(But then Sherlock went and died, and even then, John couldn't quite wrap his head around it.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

In New York, Tony Stark watched the news coverage of Sherlock's death and scrolled through John's blog again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go, it's done. Happy (very belated) birthday Julie, and I hope you enjoyed all the angst.


End file.
